


Who Needs Tomorrow

by eyeus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: Meme of Interest, M/M, Resolved Misunderstandings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is only one bed,” Harold pronounces, in the manner one might use for a catastrophic event. He eyes the hotel bed distrustfully. “I specifically requested <i>two</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Needs Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> For [**this**](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=83683#cmt83683) prompt on Meme of Interest, where “Reese and Finch have to share a hotel room and a bed” and misunderstandings follow. Title from _We’ve Got Tonight_ , inspired by the Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton version.

~

“ _Careful_ ,” Harold hisses, mid-sentence about the history and architecture of the hotel they’re staying in.

The hotel isn’t exactly unique; just a posh-sounding outfit with a surname—a foolish attempt at immortality through a hotel chain—and the words _Grand Resort_ following it. 

John’s half-listening as he hefts their bags into a corner of the room, grimacing as their luggage trolley leaves tracks in the lush carpeting. Most of the luggage belongs to Harold anyway: a laptop, cables, assorted wiring and sensitive items that warrant the frequently hissed warnings. 

When John’s done shuffling the bags against the wall, he’s expecting Harold to continue where he left off, with more facts, dates, and people, even the lived history of the hotel, so it’s only natural that he notices Harold’s chatter taper off, and the prolonged silence that follows it.

“What’s the problem, Finch?” Maybe he’s noticed the absence of an ethernet cable or wi-fi network—apocalyptic, John’s sure, in Harold’s world view. 

“There is only one bed,” Harold pronounces, in the manner one might use for a catastrophic event. He eyes the queen-sized bed distrustfully. It seems harmless enough, with its floral-patterned bedspread and large, fluffed pillows. “I specifically requested _two_.”

John casts his eyes toward the ceiling and sighs. “I’ll sleep in the tub.” 

He throws the bathroom door open, only to discover that in lieu of a tub, there is the most ornate walk-in shower, a tiled glass enclosure with a hand-carved handle doubling as a towel rack. John scrubs a hand over his face. He’s got to start assuming that every establishment, from the seediest motels in Texas to the poshest hotels in upstate New York, will not have bathtubs. 

“Change of plans,” John breathes out, resigned. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

Harold’s still staring at the bed, albeit thoughtfully this time. “There’s room enough for two. I don’t expect sharing will be a problem, Mr. Reese.”

And when Harold says it like that, with no room for argument, well—there really isn’t.

~

They’re tracking a number in Albany, and while this is hardly their first out-of-town gig, Harold’s brought enough supplies with them to set up an auxiliary “library” in their hotel room. When he’s finished fiddling with the wiring and setting up the makeshift connections, he makes his way to the bed and sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress.

“Was bringing all that hardware really necessary?” John inquires, comfortable in his supine position on the bedspread. One arm is tucked behind his head, the other sprawled lazily across the adjacent pillow. 

Harold turns his body to face John and narrows his eyes as he eases off his waistcoat. “When we’re trying to track an international money launderer who has access to resources beyond even _my_ imagining, yes, we need all the advantage we can get.”

It’s the first time Harold’s admitted to being worried, in his roundabout way.

John knows that a joke, on occasion, goes a long way in lightening the tension. “We’ve always got Plan B,” he tries, gesturing to the duffel bag of guns in the corner. As if a few firearms could somehow outmanoeuvre the latest in technological programming and mercenary warfare. 

Harold sniffs. “I noticed. Though you’ll forgive me if I continue to prepare Plans C through E, in case our assailants aren’t deterred by your heavy artillery.”

“It’s just, I thought you hired me to be your field agent, not your packhorse,” John deadpans. 

Harold snorts this time, light amusement evident. “If you’re finding this job to be too troubling, I can always—”

“No. No trouble at all,” John cuts in. He lets his fingers wander from the pillow to rest lightly on Harold’s arm, the touch meant to reassure. When Harold freezes at the touch, John lets his fingers fall away. 

He’s definitely overplayed his hand; it’s too much, too soon, and a short silence falls, empty air with only shallow breathing and the _tick tock_ of a gilded wall clock between them. 

Harold breaks it with an audible swallow, just a faint _click_ as he strips down to a modest, white undershirt. After he sets his glasses on the night table, he tugs on the pull chain of the bedside lamp and rolls over, careful not to touch John under the covers. 

“Good night, Mr. Reese. Sleep well—we have an early start tomorrow.”

John doesn’t bother to nod in the near-dark. He just closes his eyes, a form of silent acquiescence, because there’s _that_ night unceremoniously truncated. 

Harold’s right, though; the last few days and their associated numbers have left him bruised and sore, and the respite, however brief, will be good for him. He watches the insides of his eyelids a while longer, listens to the steady rhythm of Harold’s breathing, and finds himself drifting off, until he’s falling deep, deeper, deeply inside himself, asleep.

~

John’s deepest sleep is still light compared to most people—after all, a stint in the army and paranoia cultivated in the CIA does that to a man: entrenches the habit of doing more with less rest.

Which is how he wakes up to Harold gazing at him, pale in the muted moonlight filtering through the window. It’s oddly flattering, being the subject of Harold’s single-minded scrutiny, and John keeps his eyes just the right amount of closed to see what Harold does next. 

What comes next is far beyond flattery, grazing the territory of adoration— _reverence_ , even—as Harold leans forward and touches his lips to John’s temple, tracing a path of light, cautious kisses down the side of his face. 

Before he realizes he’s doing it, John’s arms close around Harold, pulling him down as he lets out an undignified squawk.

“Mr. Reese, I-I thought you were—” Harold stutters against the column of John’s neck. 

“Sleeping? Yes. Until now,” John says, with a breathy laugh. He shifts beneath the sheets until his forehead presses against Harold’s, soaking in the gentle warmth for all of a second before pulling away. Giving Harold an out. 

“We shouldn’t—” Harold manages, but it’s a whisper, full of want and longing, and the sweetest hint of _anticipation_. “We shouldn’t, but I.” He surges forward, tongue darting out to lick John’s lower lip, hand cupping the side of his face. “I want you.” Harold’s voice has taken on the keen edge of desperation now, low and wet against John’s throat. “I want _all_ of you,” he says fiercely. 

“Oh,” John blinks, before he’s choking out, “ _have_ me,” because whatever Harold wants, he will give, until there’s nothing left; will let Harold consume him, because this is _Harold_ , who’s held him in his thrall since the beginning.

Even if it’s not John that Harold’s thinking of. 

Even if he’s just a stand-in for Grace—soft, guileless, beautiful Grace, the photo negative of everything John is. 

He curls his fingers around Harold’s forearm, mindful of the weight it bears in compensating for his leg and neck. Presses jealous crescents into pale skin with his fingertips, his other hand sliding his own boxers down to palm his cock in anticipation.

“Hurry,” John rasps. Before he changes his mind, before this crosses the border from Bad Idea into Irrevocably Terrible Idea. 

“Wait—protection,” Harold gasps, breaths coming in harsher heaves.

John huffs in irritation, come-slick hand fumbling at the knob of the night table. They’re paying upwards of three hundred dollars for this room, there had damn well better be more than a bible in the drawer, and yes—there’s a tube of something, a strip of something else. He yanks the lubricant out and drags the strip of condoms from the drawer.

It’s the oddest thing, John thinks, the way Harold looks at him in this moment as he prepares them both. He’s not sure what to make of it, this— _ah_ , there’s the first finger—near-reverential gaze; like John’s something precious, irreplaceable. 

This would be so much easier, if Harold looked at him like a tool to be used, a supernumerary he picked up off the street to do the legwork he didn’t want to. Though John, of all people, knows Harold has never chosen the _easy_ way to do things. Simplicity has never been his strong suit.

Harold’s worked his way up to two fingers when John hisses, “Do it. _Now_.” He bucks his hips in an attempt for _more_ , for Harold to stretch him and fill him and sate the burning inside—

—and gasps, hitched and barely audible as Harold presses in, all heat and hardness as he pins John to the mattress. He starts with slow, shallow motions, before rocking forward with experimental thrusts that brush against John’s prostate, setting the nerves inside him on fire. John manages to sink his teeth into his own forearm, biting back the sob that threatens to spill out. 

“Harder,” John pleads, when he’s found his voice again, and it’s tight with pain, maybe desire, and Harold obliges, fucking up and into him, wincing as John’s fingers dig into his shoulders in pain and pleasure both. And when John begs _More, Harold, more_ , he takes John in hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts. 

Despite the fact that Harold looks at him as if he hung the moon, there’s no gentle banter, no witticisms, not even the kind of talk that one-night lovers might engage in, the _Is this good_ or _How does that feel_ , and something shatters in John’s chest, a sort of throbbing, aching hurt where his heart should be, because it means that look _is not for him_.

The revelation is almost enough to make John want to stop this where it’s started, to push Harold off him, before he decides _Let him have this_. He traces the scars over Harold’s neck and thighs, rakes raw trails of red down Harold’s back, the only means of possession he has. Let him have this, John thinks, because if this tiny facet is all Harold will give of himself, John will take it greedily.

Because even if Harold isn’t his, this makes it easier to pretend he is. 

_How far I’ve fallen,_ John muses. He doesn’t pause to wonder if it’s in life, or in _love_ —the answer’s never what he wants, the dice always come up snake eyes, the house always wins. 

John’s startled into a moan when he comes, and he realizes they’ve finished together, but not _together_ , because Harold’s a million miles away. As John tries to catch his breath, Harold stares at him in the dark, like there’s something he wants to say. Words of regret, words of acknowledgment. John doesn’t know. 

“John,” says Harold, smoothing a hand across John’s forehead. A sort of gentle motion that brushes the sweaty locks of hair from his face.

And that’s it. 

There’s no _That was…good_ or _That was a mistake_. And just like that, Harold’s turning away onto his side, without another word. 

John wipes himself off with the edge of a sheet, before folding his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling, listening to Harold breathe in the heavy silence between them. There’s an aching hollow in his chest where the jubilation of finally being with the person he’s respected and obeyed should be, and he can’t help but wonder if this will mean anything in the morning. Or if they’ll put it behind them, as if this is just another thing they do. Forgotten. Unacknowledged. 

Perhaps that’s all John will ever be: forgotten and unacknowledged until he’s useful, as an outlet, a stand-in, a pawn. To be used and discarded by the powers that be until there’s nothing left of him.

And maybe he’ll die in the process or sacrifice himself to save others, but if neither option comes sooner, then John will simply _cease to exist_.

~

“Good morning, Mr. Reese.”

There’s a faint _tink_ , the sound of a spoon striking the side of a cup, and tendrils of steam rise from the fresh brewed tea Harold’s set on the night table on John’s side.

John wakes with a start, bolting upright, before sinking back dizzily into the cushions with a groan. He’d hoped he could leave before Harold woke up. Maybe even catch him in the act of waking up, that moment between vulnerability and infallibility. Instead, Harold’s shaved and decked out in his silk burgundy waistcoat, prim and perfect except for his hair, still pleasantly mussed from last night’s activities. 

John wants to card his fingers through it, smooth it down. Wants to muss up Harold’s hair _more_. He wants to do many, many things, until he remembers they’re not like that—not really.

“The eggs Benedict here is excellent, if you’d like some,” Harold continues. He’s settled back on his side of the bed, tapping away at his laptop. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed between them. Business as usual, then; they won’t be talking about the night before.

John snakes a hand out from beneath the sheets to grope for his clothes, which have somehow migrated from chair to floor during the night. The rumpled shirt and jacket he slips back on quickly, and the slacks he manages to slowly wriggle over his aching hips and rump. 

Overall, the outfit’s no longer pressed and pristine, but it’ll have to do—just like him, and the heart that John pretends he doesn’t have. The one he pretends doesn’t hurt.

He steps toward the door, ready to head onto the next number, because anything’s better than being trapped here, alone with Harold and all the things they won’t talk about. 

“Where are you going?” Harold asks, glancing up from the computer. “And looking like _that_?” He wrinkles his nose, clear disapproval of John’s state of dishabille. 

John shouldn’t find that endearing, but he _does_ , god help him, and it only drives another stake into the cross he bears in his heart, the broken weight that sits heavy in his chest.

“I…” John blinks. “Don’t we have a number to be tracking?”

“In time,” says Harold. He sets his laptop on the night table. “But not at this hour. The banks aren’t even open yet.” It’s only six in the morning, according to the digital readout on the alarm clock. Most people sleep in on Sundays like this. 

They’re not most people.

“Early start?” offers John, with the dimmed smile he knows doesn’t fool anyone. His fingers close around the doorknob, in a desperate bid for freedom, because he needs the outside, needs the air, needs _something_ ; the something that Harold can’t— _won’t_ —give him, to fill the emptiness inside. The air here is too thick, too heavy, stifling with all the secrets they won’t share, the intimacies they won’t acknowledge. 

“Unacceptable,” Harold says softly. He folds his hands over his knee.

“What is?” 

“The removal of your presence from these premises. You are, in effect, fleeing, Mr. Reese. Most unlike you.” 

_Give me something, then, Harold,_ John wants to say. _Tell me what it is we had last night. If it was anything at all. Tell me_ I’m _the one you wanted, and that you weren’t just chasing the memory of a woman you can’t have._

“I’m not _fleeing_ ,” is all John says, and he doesn’t mean for the word to sound noxious and spiteful, but it does anyway. “I just—”

“ _John_.” It’s soft, but stern, with the underlying steel he knows Harold is capable of. The voice that commands where he obeys. John stops in his tracks, hand freezing on the peeling, brass knob. He doesn’t turn around.

“I think,” Harold says, with a solemn weight behind his words, “that it’s time we established some ground rules. Things I should have said earlier, before we...” Harold’s voice trails off, before returning with renewed intensity. “Things you should know and never forget.”

The leaden lump in John’s chest twists and tightens, because somewhere inside, he’d let himself _hope_ —fooled himself into thinking he could have this, or some facsimile of it—but this tone, these words, signify the end of the line. 

This is where Harold lays down the law about employer-employee protocol. That what they had was an anomaly, aberration.

John swallows around the bitter knot forming in his throat, and turns. “What might those be?” he asks, feigning polite puzzlement. He won’t let Harold see the hurt or the pain, because if he’s going to eviscerate John with his next words, Harold has no right to see that vulnerability.

Harold steps closer to him, places his hands on the side of John’s arms, with just enough pressure for emphasis. “I want you to know,” he begins, “that you are valued. Not for your services, but as something dear. To _me_.”

John’s jaw feels slack all of a sudden, but he can’t move, can’t breathe, and Harold’s hands slide down, cupping John’s hands in his. John grasps back, the motion automatic and instinctual, the connection between them a lifeline.

“Know that you are treasured,” Harold continues solemnly, “not as a keepsake, but as something I hold sacred.” 

John’s breath returns, catches on the _sacred_. It’s almost too much, this affirmation surpassing what he needed, or even expected.

“Finally,” Harold says, his voice whisper-soft, palms reaching toward John’s face, oddly gentle as they brush away the mutinous tear that’s escaped, “know that you are _loved_. Not as a weapon, but as a _man_.”

John chokes back a sob, left wanting for words and actions, because this is _poetry_ and he isn’t equipped with the phrases to form a worthy response. 

“You know that, don’t you?” Harold says, hesitant. Watching for John’s reaction. “I…I’ve gone about this all wrong, I should have said…oh, _John_ ,” Harold tries, breathing out in a rush as close to panic as John’s ever seen him. “I wish you _knew_. The depth of my—”

“Yes,” John says. His mouth works to form more words, something coherent like _I didn’t before but I do now_ and _Damn it, Harold, you could’ve said something earlier_ , but all he achieves is a quick, sharp nod.

When he finally finds his voice, it’s a dry, casual, “Yes.” As if he’s not struggling to make his throat work. As if Harold hasn’t just gifted him the sun with these sentiments, because Harold doesn’t _do_ sentiment, and for him to try so hard—

“Harold?” he rasps, because Harold’s fixing that intent stare on him again, and suddenly the heat and veneration behind that gaze makes sense: John isn’t a stand-in for anyone, he’s _John_. “I know.”

Harold releases a low, shivering breath, relieved, and draws John back to the bed, easing their mouths together for a kiss, neither hungry nor aggressive, but warm and sure. 

This time, John lets Harold press him into the mattress, lets him possess his mouth, his body, his soul and take what is _his_ , because this time, John is safe in the knowledge that he is dear, he is sacred.

And he is _loved_.


End file.
